Build My Heart a Room Out of Wood
by Etesia
Summary: Stiles is unusually excited about spending the whole summer cooped up in the stifling heat of his house - if only because it means he can watch the ridiculously attractive man hired to fix said house. In which Stiles is a bit of a creeper (but then, Derek is too), and likes to jerk off to the mental images of Derek doing construction work.


This is unbeta'd and hasn't even been read through unfortunately, sorry for any strange mistakes!  
The idea is (once again) from Julia, who seems to like giving me Sterek ideas I can't turn down.  
Title is pointless, as most of my titles are.  
Apparently I really enjoy writing Sterek kitchen sex?

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Stiles usually hates being stuck at home alone in the middle of summer; the house is always hot and sticky because they don't have air conditioning, and he always ends up idly clicking through an endless series of links from website to website he really doesn't care about because there isn't anything else to do.

Usually he would rather go play video games with Scott (even if he is more often than not practically attached at the hip to Allison), or go for ice cream or something – anything really, as long as it got him out of the stifling house and distracted him from endless days of boring nothingness staring him in the face.

These days Stiles would far rather stay at home – preferably alone if he can swing it – stifling heat be damned. Actually, if he's perfectly honest the stifling heat is part of the reason that Stiles is so happy to stay home because it tends to mean that the excessively attractive contractor/handyman his dad hired to fix the house up is shirtless and dripping in sweat.

Stiles tries not to be too obvious about his staring, keeping up pretenses for being where he is; pouring a drink and slowly chopping up some fruit (which he may or may not ever eat) in the kitchen, or watching TV in the living room, making up whatever excuse will allow him to be in the room with windows that face wherever the guy is working.

Because seriously the man is ridiculously good looking; all square, stubbled jaw and defined abs and arms that are perfectly muscled and so very strong looking. And yeah, Stiles would be lying if he said that he hadn't been… inspired by the man's presence. Watching him work with his hands all day – muscles rippling with effort and sweat dripping in an unfairly attractive way (seriously, how can sweating be so attractive?) – was providing Stiles with a nearly unlimited stream of new images to get off to and he doesn't even know the guy's name.

Which is why Stiles ends up marching outside with an incredibly cliché pitcher of lemonade in hand hoping to get in some quality flirting with the hired help and feeling every inch the stereotypical desperate housewife. Minus, of course, actually being a housewife.

The man is unfortunately fully clothed, but the heat from pounding sun and the physical work of carrying two-by-fours from his truck to the backyard where he's doing repairs on the deck has left the thin t-shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his chest. Stiles plunks down two empty cups and the pitcher of lemonade on the shady end of the patio table, the glass already sweating from the heat and the ice cubes melting rapidly.

"Hey," he calls out when the man nears him with a bundle of lumber hiked over his shoulder. "I brought out some lemonade." The man looks startled to see Stiles outside, almost as though he believed Stiles incapable of setting foot outside. Which, to be fair, wouldn't be that absurd a conclusion to have come to given how much time Stiles has spent intentionally cooped up in the house since the man started working.

"Uh, thanks." The man says after a long beat of silence, setting down the planks of wood near the steps.

"I'm Stiles by the way."

"Derek." He had been hoping that this would be easy – that he would come outside and they would flirt shamelessly and maybe there would be some kissing. That doesn't seem to be happening in any hurry, but Stiles is bound and determined to at least talk to the guy a little.

"So, um, how's the work going?" Stiles nearly smacks himself at the inanity of the question. He busies himself with pouring lemonade into the pair of glasses he brought out so that he doesn't keep babbling and not even give Derek the opportunity to answer. Not that he seems in any great hurry to speak up regardless.

"The deck needs more work than it looked like it would." Derek doesn't say anything more, but Stiles will work with what he's given.

"Oh, well that sucks. I guess that means you'll be here for a while, huh?" Stiles knows he sounds too excited about the prospect of Derek having more work to do but he really can't help it. He holds out a glass of lemonade to Derek and lets his eyes linger on a muscled forearm as the man reaches to take the glass from him. Stiles' eyes trail up to the sticking, clinging t-shirt stretched over Derek's chest and he tries not to gape unattractively, taking a gulp of lemonade to cover the way he knows he is ogling just a little too obviously.

Stiles can feel Derek's gaze flickering over him and his face feels warm – even warmer than the heat of summer can account for. He thinks he should really go back inside and cool off before he does something stupid, but then Derek starts speaking, and Stiles couldn't possibly leave if Derek is willingly talking to him.

"I can't say I have any complaints about having steady work for a while. Your dad might not like it though, it's going to cost more than I quoted originally."

"Isn't the rule like, double the quote to know what it's really going to cost?" The faintest hint of a smile cracks on Derek's face, and Stiles is pretty sure he's beaming with pride because he did thatwithout even having to be funny or anything, not to mention Derek looks really fucking good when he smiles, even if it is only the most minute smile ever.

"I try really hard to give relatively accurate quotes. I find people tend to like it better when you tell them a project is going to cost an arm and a leg, rather than telling them that it's only going to cost an arm and then cutting off their leg later on." Stiles scrunches up his face at the image painted by Derek's words. Derek said it with such a straight face, and Stiles really is not quite sure how to take that – he thinks maybe he should be creeped out.

"Dude, morbid!" He says, sounding a little scandalized. Derek huffs, eyes rolling and arms crossing (an action that makes his muscles flex briefly, drawing Stiles' eyes and distracting him for a second before he can drag his eyes away again) even with the lemonade still in one hand.

"You know what I mean." Derek dismisses, and Stiles just nods, eyes continuously drifting back to Derek's rather delicious arms. Derek drains the last of the glass of lemonade, and places the glass next to the half empty pitcher. "Thanks for the lemonade but I should get back to work." Stiles wants to stop Derek from going back to work, maybe drag him inside and re-enact some of the scenes that have played out in Stiles' head involving the two of them.

But then Derek strips off his shirt as he's walking back towards the pile of lumber that he has stacked by the steps of the porch, and Stiles really can't find it in himself to do anything other than stare and try to memorize the perfect dimpled musculature of Derek's back.

And then, of course, Derek starts actually working – lifting and measuring and then hammering, arms and back flexing, and then there's that assin tight jeans– and Stiles is completely done for, struck dumb and standing there staring for who knows how long before he suddenly turns tail and runs back into the house, screen door slamming behind him.

He dumps what is left of his lemonade in the kitchen sink, bracing his hands on either side of it and breathing harshly in an attempt to calm his hormones. It would probably work, except that the window above the sink happens to look out on exactly the portion of the deck Derek is currently working on, and so instead Stiles ends up half slumped over the sink with nowhere near enough will power to drag himself away from watching even though he really needs to drag himself away and go cool off. Or go jerk off.

And really he needs to learn to get his horniness in check because Stiles is standing in the kitchen of the house he grew up in watching the man hired to fix up the porch, and he has a raging hard on that he cannot seem to will away. Not that's he's even really trying any more.

It's almost as though Derek is doing it on purpose; making every action look just a little more sexual than it really ought to – and seriously who uses a screwdriver like that? It looks like he's trying to get the damn thing off. Or maybe it's just Stiles' hormone addled brain making him see things.

But really if Derek is going to bend over like that and stroke his drill – and that sounds dirty even in Stiles' head. Or maybe especially in Stiles' head – Stiles really can't be blamed when he realizes that he's started palming his dick without even thinking about it.

He's barely touching himself, but having Derek right there in front of him, even if he isn't doing any of the things that Stiles has fantasized about, is already far better than just the memories and day dreams that Stiles usually has to work with.

It doesn't take long before just palming himself through the fabric stops being enough and Stiles is unbuttoning his shorts and jamming his hand down to wrap around his hard cock. He starts stroking in earnest; hand tightening and twisting on each upstroke while he uses the other to prop himself against the edge of the counter to stay standing when his knees begin to give out.

He's panting, face scrunching up and eyes falling shut in pleasure before he forces them back open to look at Derek again. Stiles' eyes fix on Derek's ass; it is firm and round, with perfect little dimples just above the waistband of his jeans and the tool belt slung around his hips, and Stiles really wants to press his thumbs into those dimples and bite the plump roundness where the curve of Derek's ass meets his thigh. That image makes him jerk faster, thumb working over the damp head of his dick every few strokes.

His mouth is hanging open and he's panting for air and letting little pleasured whines fall from his lips, hand working frantically over the length of his cock. It's amazing – probably one of the best jerking sessions he has ever had, what with the honest to god, live action visual aid – until the moment that Derek stands from the piece of rail he was adjusting and turns to look right in the window at Stiles.

Stiles could pretend that Derek doesn't know what he's doing – that because he is hidden from chest down there is no way Derek could tell – but he knows it is clear on his face, and from the way his arm is positioned and jerking in a steady rhythm. Stiles should stop, he knows he should, but he is so damn close and seeing Derek's eyes aimed in his direction is only giving him more fodder for his fantasy because they seem to be boring into him in a way that makes his blood sing and boil in all the most pleasurable ways.

Stiles keeps his hand moving steadily, lets his other hand move down to fondle his balls through the material of his shorts even though it leaves him off balance and shaky. Derek stalks towards the window, predatory gleam in his eyes and perfect torso displayed impeccably to Stiles' eyes, stopping just feet away to watch. Stiles whimpers at the way heat rushes through him with Derek's gaze on him the way it is, not angry or disgusted, but turned on and possessive.

Stiles has to squeeze his eyes shut, hating to block out the view, but too overwhelmed with pleasure and imagery to do much else. By the time he opens his eyes again Derek is gone from view, and Stiles whines at the loss, trying not to feel too disappointed because he honestly had no right to do what he's doing.

His legs feel like they're going to give out, his knees shaking and toes curling, but Stiles isn't willing to remove either hand from himself – isn't willing to sacrifice the pleasure he's feeling. He'll risk collapsing to the kitchen floor instead if it means he can come with the amount of intensity he's been feeling.

In his pleasured haze Stiles must miss the sound of the door, because suddenly there are arms around him – one low on his stomach holding him up and pulling him back against a strong, warm body and the other hand grazing down Stiles' arm and cupping the hand Stiles has on his balls. Stiles lets out a high, surprised whine, and lets himself collapse a little into the strong body holding him on his feet.

Derek brushes his lips across the pulse point in Stiles' neck, stubble leaving tingling trails wherever it brushes Stiles' skin. "Come on. I know you want to come." Derek's voice says, low and gravelly in Stiles' ear. Stiles' breath stutters and Derek's hand squeezes gently, putting pressure on Stiles' cock and balls and with one last sloppy stroke Stiles comes hard over his hand and onto his clothes. "So hot."

Stiles lets Derek support his weight completely, body too lax and blissed out to do anything about it, but Derek doesn't seem to mind and he wraps both arms firmly around Stiles' waist and presses damp, fleeting kisses to Stiles' neck.

Eventually Stiles gets his feet under him again and forces his legs to work, feeling embarrassed now that he's no longer quite so caught up in his own pleasure. Derek's arms loosen around him but don't drop until Stiles steps away and turns his body to face Derek even though he can't quite meet his eyes.

Stiles crosses his arms protectively over his body heedless of the come still on his hand (it's already on his shirt anyway), his entire body feeling flushed from both his orgasm and embarrassment. "I – I'm sorry. That was really," he brings his clean hand up to drag through his hair "really inappropriate and I shouldn't have…" Derek steps closer and Stiles tries to make himself smaller, embarrassment ratcheting up a notch when his dick twitches at the sight of Derek's toned abs entering his vision.

Derek is standing really close to him – so close, in fact, that Stiles has to tilt his head up so he isn't staring directly at Derek's nipple (because he really does not need to get hard again right now, thank you very much) and ends up looking at Derek's face instead, which, Stiles imagines, was the reason behind the lack of personal space to begin with.

"What about me coming in here and encouraging you to get off made you think you needed to apologize?" Derek's voice is still growling just a little, and his eyes look slightly blown out but Stiles is a little too wrapped up in being mortified to really think about what that means. "I've seen you watching me." Stiles nearly groans in embarrassment and then starts babbling an explanation.

"I wasn't watching you – I was doing stuff around the house! I just had things to do and so I was –"

"What, watching TV and pouring endless glasses of juice so you could stay in the kitchen?" Derek doesn't sound angry, in fact he's smiling, an almost fond look on his face.

"I wasn't, I swear I was just –" Stiles is mortified and stumbling over denials and apologies. He can't seem to shut up, even when he feels Derek's hand trail down his arm and settle at his elbow and the other land at Stiles' waist. Stiles stumbles over a couple of words but keeps right on babbling until Derek drags him in and presses a searing kiss to his lips, stopping him mid word.

"Stiles," Derek growls when he pulls back from the kiss "seriously, you can stop apologizing." Stiles clamps his lips shut and tries to hold in the next burst of words. "How do you think I know you've been watching me?" Stiles shrugs, still biting his lip to keep himself quiet. Derek rolls his eyes and then presses forward until their bodies are tight together and Stiles can feel Derek's hard on pressing against his hip. Stiles moans at the contact, his dick trying to get hard again.

"I've been keeping an eye on you." Derek says. He rolls his hips just a little, enough to make Stiles groan and drop his head against Derek's shoulder, hands moving to grab at Derek's arms for support. "Fuck, you're so hot," Derek grit out as he ruts against Stiles. Stiles doesn't quite get it – doesn't see his own appeal to someone who looks like Derek, but fuck if he's going to ruin this for himself by saying that out loud. "Seeing you in the window, watching me and jerking off? That was the hottest thing I have ever seen." Derek keeps rolling their hips together, punctuating his words with a kiss from time to time. "God, you looked so strung out and desperate for it," Stiles whines, angling and hooking one leg around Derek's hip to get a better angle. He might not understand his own appeal, but hearing Derek talk like that is nothing short of mind bogglingly hot and Stiles just wants to come.

It only takes a few minutes of kissing and grinding – one of Derek's large, warm hands sliding down the back of Stiles' shorts to grab his ass – before they're both coming. Stiles feels wrung out and exhausted, and Derek is panting against his neck in a way that says he might be feeling the same way, so together they slide to the floor in a heap.

"So," Stiles says once he regains his breath, "I guess I can stop being embarrassed now." Derek kisses his neck and mumbles an affirmation. They sit in silence for a few minutes, a little uncomfortable with the drying come in their pants, but really not willing to move. Eventually Stiles shakes himself from the last of the foggy, aroused haze he has been in and realizes that something is strange.

"Hey, where's your tool belt? You were wearing it earlier." Derek grumbles something and then pushes himself up off of Stiles to look him in the eye.

"What, you think I need more tools?" Stiles laughs, reaching out to run his fingers over the fly of Derek's jeans.

"Nah, pretty sure your tool is more than enough for me."


End file.
